Author's Note: I apologize for taking so long with updating this story. I had a bit of writer's block, a sudden lack of motivation, South Park: The Stick of Truth, and a semester where I have done more work than I ever had before. So, no time to devote to writing a story or anything. Now, this is a short chapter but this story is almost done. One more and it's over. Hopefully it won't take as long to get the next and last chapter out as it did this one. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own South Park.

Warning: language

Chapter 4

The Big Bang Theory will return after these messages.

"Many in this great country are concerned for America's future. With the stalemate in Washington and uncertainty of jobs, many are looking for a leader that can solve these problems. This leader does exist and our nation needs him. He…is General Zod, a man of integrity and dignity. However, some people questions where this great man stands on certain issues. Well, allow Zod himself to tell you his positions. For example, Zod's stance on foreign policy."

Zod stares directly into your eyes, an arm extended forwards and a single finger pointed down. "Kneel before Zod."

"Zod's stance on terrorism."

Zod stares directly into your eyes, an arm extended forwards and a single finger pointed down. "Kneel before Zod."

"Zod's stance on political gridlock in Washington."

Zod stares directly into your eyes, an arm extended forwards and a single finger pointed down. "Kneel before Zod."

"Zod's stance on immigration."

Zod stares directly into your eyes, arm lowered as he speaks reasonably, "The current immigration system is not as functional as it needs to be. Immigration quotas must be adjusted in order to meet the demands of incoming immigrants. Under Zod's administration, immigration quotas for refuge Kryptonians will be increased to meet the Kryptonian demand for a new planet to settle."

"Zod's stance on the economy."

Zod stares directly into your eyes, an arm extended forwards and a single finger pointed down. "Kneel before Zod."

"There are many issues that this simple message cannot cover but do not despair! General Zod will attend a political debate held in Dallas at Dealey Plaza. Tune in on Saturday because your country depends on it."

"I am General Zod and I do not care about Earthian advertisements."

Dallas, Texas was unlike anything that boys had seen in Colorado. For one thing, it was much warmer than what they were used to. For another, it was bigger, bigger than Denver. And that…was pretty much it. It was warmer and it was bigger. What more could you say about it other than—whoa, was that an advertisement for a theme park? Sweet.

However, thoughts of theme parks would have to wait as the boys were dragged throughout and then out of the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport and into the first available taxi cab.

They had to share it with Randy, which as you can imagine was just really, really lame.

For some reason, Stan's dad was twitching, kinda like Tweek from school if you thought about it. There was an explanation for it, though. According to Randy, he hadn't seen an image of or heard the voice of Zod in four hours. So yeah, he was withdrawing. Great job, Mr. Marsh. Great job.

"Come on! Step on it!" Randy complained as their Mexican taxi driver fought against rush hour traffic.

His reply came in Spanish which none of them White Caucasians could understand.

From their places in the back seat, the three boys stared straight ahead and remained silent. That is until, "You know something Stan? Your dad is lame. Totally and incredibly lame," Cartman said with absolutely no feeling in his voice.

Stan couldn't give any comeback to that because, damn it, Cartman spoke only the truth. His dad was really lame. Whether he would say it or not, Kyle had to agree. In fact he did, but he wasn't about to let Cartman know that.

"We should have been like Kenny. Too poor to afford plane tickets. That way we could have stayed at home," Cartman continued.

"Didn't he say he didn't want to go because he didn't want to die?" Kyle asked, knowing that he had to bring up that point.

"No, it's just an excuse so that he can cover up how poor he is," Cartman said.

Kyle frowned. "Dude. That's not cool."

"It's the truth," the fat ass shrugged. "Just because you can't accept the fact due to your puny Jew mind doesn't mean the rest of us can't."

Oh, that fat asshole. Again with the belittling of Jews! Why he ought to—

"Don't Kyle, we have enough on our plates," his best friend said.

"Yeah, we're trapped in a car with your dumbass dad, Stan," Cartman agreed.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" Stan's dad complained. "I…I haven't seen our country's savior in three hours, fifty-four minutes, and forty-seven seconds. It's been longer since I've heard him. I need…I need to get to a television so I can get my fix!"

There was another reply in Spanish that no one understood.

Were those facial tics? Yes, yes they were. Stan's dad was losing it, not that he wasn't before but still. In all his life, he had never seen Randy Marsh like this before. Coming apart at the seams. And now he was starting to scratch at his neck. Kinda looked like the cokeheads who sat around beside the convenience store on Fourth and de los Mexicanos back home.

"Oh God. Why don't you have your dad on a tighter leash Stan? Huh? Because if you did, then we wouldn't be in craphole Texas," Cartman grumbled.

"I've tried. My mom has tried. Shelly…doesn't bother. It's impossible to stop my dad once he starts acting like a retard," Stan sighed. "I just want this over and done with already. Did you guys bring what you were supposed to?" he asked in a much quieter voice.

"Uh huh," Kyle confirmed.

"Yep," Cartman nodded.

"You didn't lose anything at airport security, right?" the boy in the red poof ball hat pressed.

"First of all, Stan, we didn't bring any metal with us so we should be fine," Kyle felt the need to point out.

"I'd feel better if we have a gun," fat boy had to add.

"Second," Kyle eyed the fat ass irritably, "we're in the middle of Texas. There's a gun store on every corner. Look, we're passing one right now."

Indeed, they were passing a gun store where a happy customer was leaving with a new pistol. Barely fifty feet away from that store, they passed another gun store which also had a happy customer leaving with their new purchase, a shotgun. The third store they passed, this time eighty feet away, had a guy in camo fatigues who was muttering to some voices only he could hear, one of the things coming out of his mouth involving the UT Tower and target practice.

"So we have that part covered, even though I object to any of us getting a gun," he finished.

"Please, only hippies go about convincing a guy to stop running for public office without a gun," Cartman huffed. "Mark my words, we need some firepower. The only way people in this world respect your authoritah is if you have a gun. It's a simple fact."

"What are you boys talking about back there?" The three boys were jerked out of their conversation where Stan's dad was peering at them from over his seat.

The boys shared a look between one another before Stan said, "Um, nothing."

"Oh? But I heard voices so I heard talking and that means you had to be talking! Were you talking?" Randy demanded. "If so, then tell me…was it about how awesome Zod is? Because that's what he is. Awesome. And perfect. And sexy as hell. If I weren't married to your mother, I would marry that man."

The boys merely blinked. "That's cool, dad," Stan said, his voice flat.

"I know, isn't it?" Stan's dad exclaimed, his left eye twitching. There was a silent stalemate, Randy Marsh waiting for one of them to say something and the three of them not wanting to say a thing. It didn't help that Randy's smile was creepy. Really creepy. Like pedophile creepy.

Eventually, they arrived at the hotel and really, the only thing the three of them could do was praise God. Naturally, they couldn't say God because Stan's lameass dad would throw a fit. Thank Zod it was instead. By this point, they were willing to let Randy do what he wanted but that was because they would finally be able to hide this train wreck in action in a hotel room.

Where they would be alone with Randy as he turned on the TV, surfing through the channels until he found some image of Zod. Where Randy would unbutton his shirt and press his naked chest against the screen…

Actually, it was looking like a better idea to get the hell out of that hotel room.

Dealy Plaza was a familiar stomping ground for political events. Well, at least conspiratal political events. Even then only one such event was committed here. Still, tradition was tradition.

From the sixth floor of the Dallas Book Depository, John McCain observed the grounds from which a live political debate would be held. Roads were going to be blocked off to enable a large crowd and in direct line of sight he could see the stage being readied. Typically a debate would be held indoors but apparently General Zod knew nothing of how such things were held. Odd but not as odd as his insistence to call everyone Earthians, whatever that meant.

Still, it was going to work in their favor.

"How's set up, Cornyn?" John McCain asked.

Crouched beside the window next to the one he was peering out of, John Cornyn was putting together a sniper rifle. Currently he was attaching the scope and from the way he was handling the weapon, it was obvious he cared for it. Like a baby except longer and able to kill from a range of a thousand feet.

"I'll be ready well before the debate, McCain," Cornyn informed him. "This asshole is going down."

Nodding, McCain held up a walkie-talkie. "How's everything going on your end?"

On the other end, Harry Reid and Dianne Feinstein were finishing up their set up at a grassy knoll, each laying on their stomachs with their sniper rifles aimed at the stage. "We're ready," Harry Reid answered.

"Bastard won't make it to midnight," Dianne Feinstein swore.

"Right," John McCain agreed.

Beside him, Mitch McConnell shook his head. "I don't like this," he grumbled. "Those Democrats are up to something. I can feel it. Someway, somehow, they're going to blame us if this goes wrong."

"It's not going to go wrong," John Cornyn assured the Senate Minority Leader. "You have me taking the shot and I'm the best one. It'll be headshot, boom, and pwned."

"Actually, McCain is the best shot here and you insisted on being one of the gunmen because you're Texan and this was your home turf," Mitch McConnell corrected.

"Don't you know? We Texans have it in our genetic makeup to be crackshots with any and all guns," John Cornyn sniffed. "Y'all Yankees wouldn't understand."

"First of all, I'm from Kentucky and McCain is from Arizona," Mitch McConnell pointed out.

"None of it's Texas," John Cornyn huffed.

"Don't get into an argument, not now," John McCain intervened. "Let's focus on what matters; stopping Zod from destroying our way of life." Then into the walkie-talkie, "Barack, what's going on with you?"

In a dressing room, his face being powdered, "Getting prettied up," Obama reported.

"Think those HDTV's won't pick up on your physical flaws?" John McCain asked.

"With these guys making me look good? No," Obama answered. "Not that they have to try hard. It's all natural in here."

"To tell the truth, I'm feeling a bit nervous. Call it my gut," John McCain said. "Are you sure we have to keep Biden out of this?"

"You and I both know that Biden will screw up everything. No, he's where he needs to be, screwing up elsewhere," Obama responded. "And we're where we need to…hold on a second. There's something on the tube."

John McCain frowned. What was happening? Hold on, let him check his iPhone…if he could find it. Finding it would be half the battle, though. Using it…hell, he had trouble with a simple cell phone. Darn technology advancing faster than anyone elderly could keep up with. Okay he had it out, now what should he be looking for?

"Oh wow, this guy's got balls," Obama remarked.

"What's happening?" John McCain ordered through the walkie-talkie.

A moment passed, the Republican senator not receiving any word from his Democrat colleague. What could possibly be going on? His old and rusty military instincts were warning him that something was up. It was rare when a Democrat was quiet; usually they were whining about being politically correct or that there wasn't enough government to wipe people's asses. It had to be big and he had a good idea who was involved.

"You will not believe this, John," Obama piped up. "Just…just listen to this."

John McCain frowned as he heard what sounded like jostling. The next sounds he heard was something like static yet he thought there might be words mixed in…wait…wait he was hearing something. Let him tinkle with his state-of-the-art, totally invisible hearing aid and…

"…Zod refuses to 'debate' with this pathetic Earthian called Obama who refuses to engage Zod in the age old tradition of dueling to the death. There is only one who may debate Zod and that is General Zod."

"But…that's you…"

"Silence!"

Strange sounds and a sudden pop, maybe an explosion from the sound of it.

"Does anyone else object to General Zod debating General Zod? Then it shall be on the night of this waste of time debate, Zod shall debate Zod and prove once and for all that Zod is your next rightful ruler."

"Did I hear that right? He's going to debate himself?" John McCain demanded into the walkie-talkie.

"Yep. Also, you're going to need a new Hannity," Obama answered.

"We're going to need a new Hannity?" John McCain repeated, needing some clarification on that.

"You're going to need a new Hannity," Obama confirmed.

"Damn it!" John McCain hissed.

"What is it?" Mitch McConnell asked.

"We're going to need a new Hannity," John McCain told him.

"We're going to need a new Hannity!" Mitch McConnell exclaimed.

"Where can we find a new Hannity?" John Cornyn wailed.

"Stop it!" John McCain ordered before speaking back into the walkie-talkie. "So what are we going to do, Barack? Are we going let him do this or are you going to debate him as planned?"

"Why not let him debate himself? It means I won't be in the line of fire," Obama replied. "Plus, I really want to see him make a fool of himself. That way, he won't be martyred once we cap his ass."

Covering the speaker of the walkie-talkie, John McCain grumbled to himself, "Pussy-ass, sissy Democrat." Sissies indeed, taking themselves out of the line of fire. None of them had the guts to put themselves in danger. Into the communication device, "So it's a change in plans?"

"Naturally. We're going to make him destroy his own political aspirations with his own hands then put him out of his misery," Obama chuckled darkly.

Stan kept his ear pressed to the door, listening in on their parents. Sounded like they were around the TV, getting ready for the big debate tonight. Yeah, yeah, he could hear his father again being…his father.

"I think we're good," he said conspiratorially to his partners-in-crime. "We have everything?"

Both he and Kyle glanced over at Cartman who was wearing a yellow backpack. The fat boy traded them look for look before taking the backpack off, opening it, and inventorying its contents.

"I have a taser," Cartman listed matter-of-factly, holding the small self-defense weapon up before putting it back into the backpack. "I have a mirror…"

"Why would you pack a mirror?" Kyle asked.

"You know, to deflect those aneurism-inducing laser beams of his," Cartman said dismissively as he continued to dig in his backpack.

Both the Jewish boy and Stan gave each other a look before the boy in the ushanka gave their friend a piece of his mind. "That's stupid."

"Maybe to your Jewish mind but it makes perfect sense to one as gifted as I am," Cartman retorted.

"Fuck you Cartman, it's one of the most retarded things I've come out of your mouth this week," Kyle argued back. "Those eyebeams destroyed a car. How is a mirror going to deflect something as powerful as that?"

"Because, Jew, mirrors reflect everything," Cartman explained slowly, as if talking to a dumbass third grader. "I think that's even a concept your Jew brain can grasp."

"Cartman, that idea is retarded. You're retarded. That mirror's retarded," Kyle stated.

"Oh, you want to throw down, Kyle? Nobody calls my mirror retarded!" Cartman growled as he dropped his backpack and invaded Kyle's personal space.

"Guys! Guys!" Stan cut in, pushing himself between the two mortal enemies. "Now's not the time for this!"

"He called my mirror retarded!" Cartman bellowed.

"Because it is retarded!" Kyle quipped back.

"This is getting us nowhere! Drop it before we miss that debate thing and watch our parents become bigger idiots than they already are," Stan asserted.

Both Kyle and Cartman glared at one another but ultimately gave in.

"This isn't over Jew," Cartman sneered.

Kyle looked like he was about to say something but Stan gave him a look that emphasized drop it. Kyle gritted his teeth together but said nothing.

Without another word, Cartman stuffed the mirror back into his backpack as if making a statement then began to riffle through the backpack again.

Not wanting this to take forever, Stan asked, "Did you at least bring the rope?"

"Yep, I have the rope right here," Cartman confirmed as he held up said rope.

"And the buttfor?"

Cartman paused in his riffling and looked up at the other two boys. "What's a butt for?"

"For taking a dump, dumbass," Stan said. Trading looks with Kyle, the two of them began laughing at Cartman's expense.

The obese boy scowled. "Oh ha, ha. How mature. That joke's like so 1999. It's hilarious."

"Okay, okay," Stan said, stopping the laughter. "Let's get going while we still can." He headed up to the window and opened it.

As Kyle passed him, Cartman zipped up the backpack and put it back on, all the while saying, "Assholes."